Remnant
by Tara SylvanBlade
Summary: There are times when humanity forsakes itself, who loses a battle depends on your persective. One mage discovers this on his own example.


_**Remnant**_

_GW does not belong to me..._

_Dammit..._

__  
  
_There are times, when humanity forsakes itself, and in one self-destructive bout, it manages to destroy the weaker faction. That is a battle between Life and Death, good and evil. Only the strong survive and only they deem themselves worthy. The champions write history, and so the other side of the story is never heard. Yet on occasion, such a story appears, though it is given to ideals of fiction. But it is known that there are different ways to win, different perspectives. Proof that you can win no matter what the cost._  
  
A cold wind swept across frostbitten fields as the man let his cloak flow freely around him, seemingly unaware of the icy gusts that encompassed him in their mindless vortex. His mind was focused on the task at hand as he surveyed the destruction that lay beneath his feet. Several thousands of men had been slaughtered in this battle, and yet they had not gained back any ground. Their enemy had been too strong, too resilient; they hadn't had a chance in the world. He had warned the commander of as much, that was the moment in which he was told to leave, his commander would not have any mage instructing him in the art of war no matter what their calling. Now he lay dead, somewhere amongst the multitude of corpses that lay scattered over the battlefield. The man closed his eyes to keep back the single tear that threatened to run down his face. The commander had been a fool, but those under him could not have disobeyed his orders. To do so would have guaranteed that they be branded as deserters and hunted down like animals. Their families stripped of everything they owned and cast into the oblivious existence of slavery. Those men had died needless deaths. For them he would weep, but not now, for a remnant of a remnant remained, and it was his responsibility to lead them to the safety of their beloved city. His face became emotionless and he turned his dispassionate gaze unto the soldiers who had managed to survive while their comrades-in-arms where slaughtered.  
  
"Dimashier, we've salvaged all we could." A man separated himself from the survivors, and climbed to join him on the rocky hillside.  
  
"Tell the men that we will leave soon, I have one last thing to before we go." His voice was cold and purposeful, dispassionate, he could not allow those who were still alive to doubt his decision, he could not allow them to see his anger, his fear, his pain. He could not appear to show emotion, not now, not when the rashness of emotion had les them to massacre. He would not give them reason to fear. Not with what he had to do, not with the impact that his immediate duty would have on them.  
  
Once again, he found himself facing the desolate destruction that lay spread before him. Those soldiers who had died would never have another chance to walk in the day, never to see their loved ones one last time. The wrenching cries from their faded souls tore at his heart, he should have been stricter, should have demanded that they leave the forsworn battleground; this pain was as much his fault as much as their Commander's.  
  
"Dimashier? What do you intend to do?"

Then in a nearly inaudible whisper.

"Milord Maxwell, I can't allow... I won't allow anything to happen to you. You're the only one that can lead us out alive, the only one the men trust. Please Duo don't forfeit your life for some lot cause, some pointless duty, don't do anything stupid." The man shrank back, fear written in bold letters upon his features, as the Black Mage turned his half-dead gaze upon him.  
  
"This one time Marcus, this one time I will allow what you just did to pass."

The man was still afraid, and rightfully so. He had questioned the decisions of a Battle Mage and Commanding officer, accused him of idiocy, and then proceeded to refer to him by his given name. Any other mage of his order would have had the man killed by slow and painful torture, and if they considered their pride so wounded they would do it themselves Just to prove a point. But he was not any other mage, and he would not succumb to their audacities.  
  
"I will do what must, no more no less I am but a man Marcus. Yet I have my duties, tell the men to make ready, and quiet the horses. They will likely spook." He closed his eyes briefly trying to ignore the painful pleas of the dead.  
  
The mage turned away once again staring at the vast expanse of battlefield as the eyes of the other man widened in understanding, he saluted sharply and then scrambled down the rocky slope. Already giving the orders that would protect the sanity of the rag-tag troops that had managed to survive in defiance of the odds.

The thoughts of the mage grew painfully bitter as he listened to the men assembling behind him. _The shattered remains of the massive forces that had rallied under the Gryphon's banner, an army compromising of over sixteen legions, 100 thousand men. And now by some play of cruel fate's hand only 200 boys remained._

'_No'_ the mage corrected himself. _'They are men, for all the lack of hair on their faces... but they would never regain the innocence lost here.' _Yet his thoughts betrayed him once again._ 'For all the meaning of your white hair, are you any older then them yourself?_ A mocking voice chided. _'No your not.'_ But with supreme force of will he shouldered aside the voice and the thoughts and began to make his way onto the fields of the massacred, leaning heavily on his weapon staff.  
  
The silence was more disturbing for its utter stillness. Nothing was alive, nothing moved unless carried on the wings of the bitter wind. A silence so complete that his breath could not penetrate the feel of Death that permeated the very air, and soaked its claws into the blood soaked earth.

TBC... if anyone likes it enough

Logging Off

Anaiya


End file.
